


Bad dreams banished

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to my small collection of sick!Gene fics... Now it's Sam's turn to suffer!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad dreams banished

Sam cried out during the night, a blood-curdling scream like someone was murdering his favorite auntie, and by the time Gene had dragged himself groggily out of his own bed and stumbled down the hall to flick on the light in the spare bedroom, Sam was bent over the edge of the bed, retching helplessly into the bin.

"Oi," Gene murmured, drawn forward across the floor by the sheer misery of Sam's bony shoulder blades clenched tightly under the sweat-damp fabric of his girly patterned shirt. He rubbed a hand back and forth across that taut surface. "Easy, Sam. Just sick up and be done with it, there's a good lad." 

Sam quivered under his hand, still making nasty, choking noises, but Gene'd heard far worse in his years, seen worse, too, so he wasn't really bothered until the moment when Sam's gagging went to gut-wrenching sobs. His hand stopped, still sticking to Sam's wet shirt. His stomach dropped out the bottom of his gut, a sick, empty feeling, but not the kind of sick he'd been dealing with for the last couple of days. It wasn't right. A grown man crying like that. He wanted to leave the room, give Sam some privacy to get over this, whatever this was. But that wasn't right, either.

He stroked Sam's back again. Sam shifted, hitching himself away from the edge of the bed, giving Gene a view of his face, blotchy and puffy, streaked with tears and snot and spit, and Gene felt his heart give the oddest lurch. Lord, Sam looked helpless just now. He heaved another sob, like it was torn out of him. Could see it in his face, he didn't want to be crying like this, not in front of his Guv, but he'd been stripped of all his strength by this illness. It was too familiar for Gene to turn away.

The crying really got under Gene's skin. So many memories, all the times when Stu had wiped the tears off Gene's own face, told him to be a man, fight back, not to give their father the satisfaction. The times he'd caught his mother crying, trying to hide it. Splashing water on her face, blotting her own tears and turning a brave face to the world though she couldn't hide the bruises on her cheek. Most vivid of all, the times Stu had been limp in his bed, sick with the drugs or from lack of them, helpless tears because he didn't want to be there, hated himself, hated Gene for seeing him. When he'd lost the will, lost the fight that had always carried him through. D.I. Tyler did plenty of fighting back, thank you very much; it was one of the things that Gene valued so much about him--but sometimes even that fire burned low, needed coddling and tending.

Gene set one hip onto the edge of the bed and leaned closer so he could run his hand all the way down Sam's back, stroking him to stillness like a dog, or maybe a child--not that Gene had any experience in that department. Sam got his hands over his face, like he was trying to hold it in, but the sobs kept coming, his face all crunched into a miserable ball. 

"Stop it, you daft bugger," Gene murmured gently. "Sammy-boy, it's all right. It's only sick. You'll be fine in a few days."

"I--I kn--kn--ow," Sam stammered through his teeth, scrubbing his eyes like he could block the tears. "I bloody w-ww-well know."

"Well then." Gene rubbed in circles, massaging the tense muscles at the base of Sam's neck, and with his other hand found the corner of a blanket and tried to wipe the snot off Sam's nose. It helped Gene, anyway, made him feel less helpless as he watched Sam's anguish and occasionally looked off into the black night outside the window. Two in the bloody morning.

Sam's breathing had eased. He still shook with the occasional sob, dying down to gasping hiccoughs, one hand tucked under his pillow, the other limp over the edge of the bed. 

"Why're you crying, Sam?" Gene said at last, as soft as he could manage.

"I had--a nightmare." An exhalation, like it was a sort of defeat to admit it.

"And?"

"I woke up in your house."

"And?"

"I didn't know where I was." His face crumpled, but after a few deep, shuddery breaths he relaxed again.

"You know now, right?"

Sam nodded, eyes half-lidded.

"I'm just down the hall. I'll hear you if you call."

"I--might be sick again."

"S'all right."

Sam bit his lip, and his voice came out all quavery. "I don't want to have another dream, Gene. She's--she's terrible. I didn't think she would follow me here, but--"

Gene made a soothing noise, stroked Sam's shoulder. He didn't know how to answer Sam. This--vulnerability. Usually Sam tried to hide it, showed a different face to the world. "Oughta get you out of these clothes. You're damp. You'll sleep better dry." He stood up. "I'll get you some spare pyjamas."

Sam's eyes widened. He sucked in his lower lip, looked as though he might cry again.

"I'll be right back, you great jessie."

Back in his own room Gene pulled open a drawer and sorted through to find the softest, warmest pair of pyjamas. The faded blue ones would do; they might even be a little closer to Tyler's size as they had been new when Gene himself was smaller of girth. He paused there for a moment, staring into space, his mind a jumble of then and now, the ways his mam used to coddle him when he was sick or had an injury. What do you say when a grown man cries like a baby?

Sam had curled up while he was gone, eyes closed, damp hair in tousled points on his head. So like a little boy. He'd a youthful face, apart from the lines of worry, the frowns and the scowls. Gene touched his shoulder and his eyes opened, black pits in his face.

"Here, sit up." He pulled the blankets aside, helped Sam up, unbuttoned his silly shirt while Sam sat passive and shivering on the edge of the bed. "Put these on." He thrust the folded clothes into Sam's lap. "I'll be back with some tea."

One look back, at Sam sad-eyed and shivering on the edge of the bed, and Gene turned from the door, hands on his hips. He sighed in exasperation. "I'm not your mother, Sammy-boy."

"I feel like I'm going to faint," Sam whispered, not even apologetic. He wasn't making an excuse; he was just stating a fact, and Gene Hunt was going to have to bloody well undress his D.I. and put him in his jammies, he could see it writ all over Tyler's too-pale face.

He made a show of pouting as he shook out the top and slipped it over Sam's arm, around his back and onto the other hand. Sam helped just enough, turning a ridiculous task into something that felt... tender, perhaps. Sam lifted his hips just enough to shove his trousers down. Gene had to help; it was silly to watch Sam struggle. He tried to keep his eyes off Sam's Y-fronts, tugging the material down around Sam's calves and off his feet, then eased him into the pyjama bottoms and back into bed, pulling the duvet up high around Sam's shoulders.

"You could use a cuppa."

Sam shook his head. "Don't want anything in my stomach."

Gene scowled. "Wait here." He marched down to the kitchen, put the kettle on and rummaged around until he came up with a jar of honey. There were cinnamon sticks somewhere, he remembered his wife buying them. His own mocking tones about expenses, her weary insistence. He stood still, hands on the countertop, listening to the roar of the kettle and the distant patter of rain. It had been some time since she'd left. He was so busy day to day that he didn't tend to think about it except on Sundays when she'd always made a roast... but he had the pub, now, and mates to share his Sundays with. She'd left a big hole but it had filled up with dust and neglect and the rest of his routine. Funny how a life filled itself up like that.

He looked around the kitchen. Sam had been busy in the day or two before he got sick; the countertops were cleaner than they had been, and the walls. He could see the color of the floor! He opened the refrigerator and raised an eyebrow, impressed by the collection of bottles and packages. Nice. There were advantages to having another bloke around the place, particularly a fellow as industrious as Samantha Tyler.

He poured hot water into two mugs, then spoonsful of honey and sticks of cinnamon, and a healthy slug of whisky in each. He would have liked a drink of this while he was sick himself but all Sam had brought him was water and some sort of herbal stuff that tasted like tree bark. Not to mention the paracetamol. 

With that handy reminder he made a detour to his own room to pick up the bottle, then carried both mugs to what he was already thinking of as Sam's room.

His D.I. was just a blanket-wrapped shape, eyes glittering in a feverish face.

"I told you--" Sam croaked peevishly, but Gene shook the bottle of paracetamol at him.

"This'll help. Do as I say, Samantha. Bloody hell, you're a worse patient than I was. Just sit up a little--Christ, you're hot."

"F--ff--freezing."

"All the more reason to take your medicine. Here--" Gene held the lip of the mug to Sam's chattering teeth, watched carefully as he placed two tablets of paracetamol in his mouth and swallowed them down. "You need to stay hydrated." He settled on the edge of the bed again, helped Sam hitch himself up a little more until his head was on Gene's lap.

Sam's eyebrow quirked. He swallowed another gulp of tea, coughed, then relaxed. "I'm honored that you care whether I'm hydrated," he whispered.

"You were certainly blathering on at me about it, night before last. I do pay attention, Sammy-boy."

"Time is it?"

"Too early by half. Think you could sleep?"

Sam's brows furrowed. "She--she said... she wouldn't leave me alone."

"My room is just down the hall, Sam."

"I know, but--couldn't you, I mean, your bed is big, and--I don't take up much space, and you need to keep me hydrated--" Agitated breaths made Sam's chest vibrate, his hands fisting in the blankets. Gene felt a little ill himself, watching Sam struggle, understanding how scared he might be...

"Ohhh, bugger it all. Yes. You can't make me sick because I made you sick. Come on then, lovely lad, let's get you shifted. There's room for two in mine." Sam's disbelieving relief swept away every misgiving Gene might have had.


End file.
